The Shade
by liesincrayon
Summary: Arthur/Eames "Arthur is Death."


Co-written by Hatsuko, because neither of us can use apostrophe correctly. Also because she says things like blood and thunder, which makes me think of Big Trouble in Little China, and that's really about it. No Beta. Just assume everything I do has no Beta.

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><p>Arthur is Death, not death in an allegorical way, but Death the Reaper, disjointed from the world of spirits and dreams to walk among the living and taste their life just this once. No one really suspects anything, except maybe that he's a sociopath. There is something just this side of wrong with him, and the only one who doesn't seem to be even the slightest bit repelled by this is the Forger. Eames is a constant distraction. Distractions everywhere all over the place that are sexy and he finds himself falling more and more into these distractions, and Eames' lap.<p>

Quite accidentaly that last one, he trips on something while looking at the details of light filtering through a window and then Eames has an arm fitted around his waist and fuck, he's so warm, so warm all over, and it's like, how can feel possibly pull away. He has the sensation, somewhere, he thought he had the drive, but nothing is coming, nothing but his own body slipping further into Eames, all of that warmth that Arthur never had.

Oh no, he couldn't possibly pull away, and that warmth is such a foreign concept, even now that he has this fleshy body, breathes the same air that exsists between the press of their bodies as Eames does. He's still always so cold, the lingering shroud of Death's dark veil clinging to him as he moves through this world on mortal life. So cold, and Eames holds him tighter because of it.

Deeply, somehere far away, he knows this will drain this man, this will bring pain, bring on the blood and thunder, and they'll both gain, and they'll both suffer as the other shall suffer. But in that moment, desires that even death knew not, could only intensify, could only consume them both. But that warmth, that could satify him, was another existence.

Deep inside, down where he's started to feel more human than not, he knows he'll stop it all, stop Life and Time to keep this man with him, to feel the pulse that lays beneath his hand when he presses it to Eames' chest. He breathes out the name that has come to mean so much more than a scrawl in a book, a date. 5/17/2013 H. Eames. Time races away, and all Arthur can feel is warm. He'd drop it all, he'd bring it all down around them, he'd burn within Eames' arms and there they could, they would only exist then, together. Every sensation, every pulse and throb, would belong to them, and it was his, it belonged to him, only him. He would belong too; to that name, and those arms, and those lips brushing ever so gently, ever so soft. He would get full on the lot of it all, get high off this life, life he could be apart of.

But he knows it, even as he leans in, to steal the taste of Eames' breath rushing from him, the life curling out of him like a ghost, like the ticking clock. He cant, he cant stop Time, Eames hasn't asked for any of this, doesn't know, and Arthur cannot tell him. He will grasp what he can of Eames, and in two years, he will stand as Eames bleeds out from a chest-wound, he will stand and watch as the life curls out of him into the air, and he will catch every last breath, hold tight to Eames, who will whisper how it's all going to be alright. But that isn't now, he only knows the end of the story, not how they'll get there. He has Time still, Time to spare, and he lets himself fall that last little remaining space, fall into Eames, their lips meeting soft. Arthur breathes in the gasped breath of surprise the Brit gives him and keeps it deep in his chest, letting it warm cold flesh.

Time. He had all the Time in the world, Time to taste every succulent flavor Eames' disclosed, Time to catch every gasp, every cry. An illusion for too long, a shadow for too long, a veil hung, captured and alone. Breathe out, breathe in, swallow it all and allow it to melt him, allow it to work it's course down, down to even the furthest reaches.

Firm, so firm and large, he felt covered, and Time would only tell how much he would truly feel, how hard it truly was to retain, how truly difficult it would be to ever feel this again, how he truly never would. This Time would be irrevocable, and it would stand still limitless.

He knows when Eames returns the soft press, lips hot, so very hot, that he never will recover, he's been burned. He gasps in the exhale of Eames' breath as the Brit deepens the kiss and the warmth of life settles deep in his chest. He's branded now, Eames' heat curling it's home inside of him, and the pain is nothing like he's ever felt before. It makes him feel alive. When Eames' looses his heat Arthur will never be the same, he'll never be able to remove this marking from his essence. They had told him in whispered words, not to go, all their many voices, a cacoon of ice around his shrouds, but he had gone, to know, to know what it felt like, to Live. Eames' hand brushes slow up his spine, and he shudders as it dances through him, the warmth, the exhale of Eames' life, slipping Time away, he waited too long for this.

He wraps himself around Eames, but instead all he can feel is the impression that he is the one being held, enclosed, protected with the circle of strong arms. "Arthur" Eames' voice is a shuddered sound against his lips, and Arthur becomes the man to whom Eames address, stolen warmth giving false-flesh the last push over into the abyss. Arthur gasps, fingers tightening in Eames' shirt. "Need you." It's all he can say, his voice desperate, wrecked, and his heart now beating breaks. Eames will never know how very much Arthur has needed -him-, or how long. So very fucking long.

He'd fallen, so far, so fucking far he couldn't stop himself, couldn't catch himself anymore, there was no desire in this, he'd let himself go, lost that control in the haze of struggled breath coming forth in rugged intervals, the pressure of his lips; strong, hard against every inhale, filling him with Life. Tangible, vulnerable, tasteful, invigorating, defenseless, his hands raked against burning flesh, nails dug down deep for support, some stability in this place, this beautiful suffocating place, where air was heavy about their shoulders, and when he opened his eyes, only stars. Thousand of tiny stars, little glimmers of light starting in his peripherals, and he viewed them through mosaic eyes, dancing, his head swam lounging in the curve of Eames' neck, every scent, crisp.

Rough hands they handled him with care, they lifted him into safety and warmth, so fucking good, but the pain unbearable to reflect now. He couldn't show him these things, these things that Eames had given him, not until he'd taken every inch and like a famished wolf, devoured him with the power of a pack. He lips move to speak, only to utter that name, but there was no sound, no Time, only lips covering him, husky breath flushing his paled skin, shivers and the force of Eames' hand up his spine and around his waist.

It is awhile before Arthur can register that Eames is no longer kissing him, no longer pushing his life, his warmth into him with each exhaled breath. He's so focused on the burn, on the world bursting out before him, all the stars of life, of promise, to notice how baddly he is shaking in the circle of Eames' protection. "Shh pet, shh, I've got you." Eames voice is soft with awe and affection, and Arthur curls tighter to him and burries his face against Eames' chest and cries. Tears hot scalding as they burn a trail down his cheeks, soaking into Eames' clothing.

He cries for the first time, not even collecting Mal up, broken body from the concrete had left him like this, but Eames, holding him tightly, gentling him, he is a mess. "I've got you love, it's alright." Eames whispers again, pressing soft kisses to Arthur's temple. He holds desperately to this man and lets the heartbreak of an infinity spent alone and cold come out of him in the broken quiet cry his borrowed humanity twists into something significantly less than his true-form would have been. But the tight, suddenly desperate way Eames holds onto him, cradling him as if he'd never let him go, makes Arthur think maybe reguardless of what his cry had sounded like, some deep visceral instinct in Eames had recognized the Banshee's Wail, the cry of Death in him.

"Arthur, oh baby, oh love shh, I've got you." Eames doesn't run, even though Arthur knows Eames can feel the otherness in the choked sobs. Eames doesn't run, and Arthur sobs against his chest and lets the warmth of Eames' large hands bleed into him and soothe him, Eames doesn't run, and that is the problem, Arthur loves him, and Eames wont run from him, wont run from fucking Death when it comes.

Those hands fought to reconile, those lips fought against his cheek, kissing his tears, taking them away to dissolve on scalding lips, hands brushing up his neck to stroke his face, keenly words, fond coos to soothe his tears. To soothe his anguish which would only intensify, into more than just tears that would only be forgotten past to even his own, but tears that would remain with Eames, tears he knew Eames would remember that day, and fight to resolve as his own resolve would begin to fade.

He would stay with him, Arthur knew that he would and it stung deep inside, those affections so strong, those affections Arthur could grasp without hesitation. It welled inside of him, struggled to rip a torrent from his throat, and pressed further against Eames, his head relaxed on his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart like a drum resounding is his ears, soft and sturdy, fractured at the edge, trembling, but hardy. That precious Time bomb, the thought of that warm sun dissipating, to be replaced with sorrow, and cold, warmth he would never get back. Warmth Arthur would never feel again, whispers Arthur would hold desperately as they are whisked away to lay dead on those loving lips. Sweet generous lips, that showed only affections, only desires, only love for him.

Lips he would fear to kiss then, lips he would find hard, to kiss goodbye. Kiss goodbye that one last time, because even though Arthur could find Eames, find him after the last Heat has faded from him, it wouldn't be the same. Eames knows him as this, this brittle mortal form, and the Shroud would just twist his soul, destroy the Vibrancy in Eames Arthur has fallen in love with. Destroy the beautiful distraction he has grown to love.

He has this moment, he has the Time still left to them, it will be enough it will have to be.


End file.
